The Life and Times of Mickey Mouse
by The Mighty Heptagon
Summary: In a peaceful farming town, an orphaned young fieldmouse named "Mickey" boards a steamboat and sets out to seek his fortune. As the journey of a lifetime begins, he will discover magic, lifelong friends, and a destiny greater than any he could have imagined.
1. The Fieldmouse of Farthing Fields

The moon hung low and heavy over the placid green fields, full as a ripened peach and bright as a polished coin. The boy's ears twitched as he recalled an old tune, but he didn't have the heart to hum it. Not tonight, of all nights.

To his left, Horace Horsecollar worked a long stalk of hay around in his mouth, silently contemplating the bend of the Big Dipper and the shimmering arc of the Milky Way as he sat there atop the roof of the barn. Amid the blades of rain-soaked grass, the songs of a thousand hidden crickets echoed out. On most Summer nights, their song might have seemed a lullaby. Tonight, every chirp sounded like _"Goodbye."_

To his right, Clarabelle Cow tucked a sugar cube under her tongue.

The old bovine's sweet tooth was the stuff of legend. To most people, it was an innocent habit, but the boy knew better. She craved sweets in moments of sadness, when only the comforting taste of dissolving sugar could distract her from her sorrow. The saddest moments in the old farmhouse—the deaths of pets, the failure of crops, and the parting of old friends—were always accompanied by the rustle of candy wrappers.

" _Life is a complicated thing, little mouse,"_ she had told him, years ago. _"Sometimes it's sad and sweet all at once."_

She said that while recalling the fateful day of the Big Storm, which every farmer and shopkeep of Farthing Fields remembered so well.

 _"Sometimes I still weep when I remember the day that we found you in the barn,"_ Clarabelle had said. _"I remember how you shivered… I'd never seen anybody so afraid. The thunder was crashing, and the wind was wailing, and the rain came down like a torrent of stones. But as soon as Horace gathered you up in his arms, and you nestled your head up against his shoulder, you calmed right down. The storm raged on, but you knew you were safe. It was like you'd known us for years. I weep when I remember that day, because I know that you lost your family in that storm—whatever family you had, once. But that storm brought you into my life, Mickey. And you've given me more happiness than anybody else in this world, before or since that day. That's life in a nutshell, I suppose. Sad and sweet all at once."_

He remembered every word of that conversation. If he wanted, he could have recited Clarabelle's words back at her, if only to comfort her. Instead, he put a comforting hand on her shoulder, pulled her close as the crickets chirped their mournful goodbyes.

Clarabelle gave a long sigh as the moon climbed high above the sleeping countryside, then perched in a comfortable spot amid the shimmering constellations. Just above it, a shooting star traced a graceful arc across the sky as it rose and fell, on its way to some strange distant country. Horace whistled at the sight.

"Make a wish, Mickey," he said. "That star belongs to you. You need it more'n I do."

The boy chuckled.

"Don't be silly, Uncle Horace. I don't need to make wishes. I've got everything I need right here."

"You're right about that, boy," Horace said, chewing at his straw. "But this time tomorrow, you'll be far away from this old farm."

Under his arm, the boy felt Clarabelle's body give a little shudder as she swallowed back a sob. He squeezed her shoulder.

"It's alright, Aunt Clara," he said. "I'll make a wish, just for you."

He contemplated the silver visage of the moon, a silent watchman over the country that had sheltered him so long. In days to come, he would remember Farthing Fields in all of his peaceful moments. But those memories would never be so strong as when he looked to the night sky, remembering the night that he calmed Clarabelle's troubled mind with a simple wish.

"I could wish for a lot of things, I suppose," he said. "There's wealth. There's power. I suppose I've always wanted to be strong and respected. But all those things will come when they'll come. I suppose for now, I wish that the Mighty Minestrone will always bring me back to you."

Beyond the rolling hills, and beyond the forests thick with shadow, the Minestrone wound its way through the rain-soaked country like a lazy snake, the moon's reflection shimmering upon its rolling waters like a flock of silver-winged moths.

"Ah, that old river…" Horace said, as he gazed into the distant horizon. "Take it from somebody who knows, boy: that old river'll take you anywhere you want to go. For a boy looking to find his place in the world, that's as fine a place to start as any."

As he said that, another sound mingled with the song of the crickets. Somewhere, far in the distance, a steam engine sputtered and chugged merrily along the length of the great river—the telltale sound of a steamboat.

Something about that sound charmed old Horace to the bone. As the engine's rhythmic sputtering echoed through the night, he threw back his head and tapped his foot. And as his ears began to twitch all over again, the boy remembered that old tune. An old ditty about a steamboat captain named "Bill". For tonight, though, he improvised a few new lines.

 _"Mickey Mouse, steamin' down the Minestrone,  
Mickey Mouse, a mighty mouse was he,  
Mickey Mouse, steamin' down the Minestrone,  
He set out for the river, and he sailed away!"  
_

* * *

The moon hung low and heavy over the cooling hardpan of Gooseliver Gulch. By the dying light of a campfire, a white-feathered old fellow counted his coins, his fingers twitching with delight as he slid them into a rough leathern bag and pulled the strings tight. All around the campfire, heavy bars of gold and silver were stacked in orderly piles. Farther back, emptied carts sat by the gleaming train tracks, ready for the morning's haul from the mines.

Nearby, a young lad of eighteen adjusted his cap and leaned upon a discarded pickaxe as he fought the urge to yawn. He wore a sailor's cap—though the nearest river was three days' ride from the gulch.

"Time for quitting yet, Uncle Scrooge?" the younger man asked. "We've been at it for hours!"

" _Ach!"_ the older man spat. _"_ Choke on your words, young Donald. Are ye lazy, or just impatient?"

"I'm _sleepy_ Uncle Scrooge…" Donald protested. "I can swing a pickaxe all day or count gold all night, but I can't do both."

"But this is the fun part, lad!" Scrooge exclaimed. "Enjoy the fruits of your labor! Take joy in every shining coin that crosses your palm! Perhaps someday you'll have your _own_ pool of money to swim in!"

Donald raised one eyebrow.

"You really _do_ swim in money? I always thought Aunt Matilda just made that up…"

Scrooge blew a raspberry as he kept his eyes riveted on his piles of coins.

"And you call yourself a true-born son of Clan McDuck…" he grumbled. "Never thought I'd see a kinsman of mine grow weary of countin' his money!"

As the moon rose high above the desert, he yawned deeply and leaned against the nearest cactus. His eyelids grew heavy as he contemplated the feeling of his feather mattress back in Duckberg—but the sharp prickle of cactus spines woke him right up. Scrooge flinched at the sound of his yelp, scattering silver and gold coins all across the ground.

"Sorry, uncle…" Donald mumbled.

He raised his eyes to the night sky as the smoke of their campfire drifted into the air, the furtive flicker of sparks mingling with the smattering of Summer constellations. Then the column of wood-smoke touched the full moon, and the Man in the Moon seemed to grow a beard. As Donald chuckled at that thought, a shooting star tracked a graceful arc across the sky, just above the moon.

Donald whistled with delight as Scrooge gathered up his coins.

"It's a shooting star, Uncle Scrooge!" he exclaimed, pointing to the sky. "You better make a wish before it falls!"  
Scrooge snorted. He dug into his pocket and plucked up a tiny silver dime, polished so lovingly that it seemed to sparkle.

"I've no wishes to make, young Donald. My Number One Dime brings me all the good fortune I could ever need. As for you, though… I suppose if there's a wish in that star, it ought to be yours. Heaven knows _you_ could use some luck."

Donald's eyes followed the star as it cut a path across the heavens, dragging its shimmering trail of stardust behind it.

"Y'know, uncle…" he said. "I get the feeling I'm not the only one wishing on that star…"

* * *

The moon hung low and heavy as the boy made his lazy way along the dirt road.

Some people say that every native of Spoonerville is born lazy. Around Duckberg and Podunk Landing, the locals often joke that Spoonerites wear lead in their shoes, lest they hurry too quickly to their daily errands. The men of the Goof family, who lived on Spoonerville's east side, caught the brunt of that joke more than most.

Granted, Old Amos Goof didn't help his case when his only son was born. As his uncles and cousins gathered at the hospital to mark the occasion, each of them chimed in to suggest a name for the newborn boy. Some thought "Maxwell" suited the lad, while others—in a patriotic fervor—suggested "Jefferson" and "Roosevelt". A squeaky-voiced nephew suggested "Grayson," "Gulliver," "Gabriel" or "Gregory," insisting that a true son of the Goof family ought to embrace the letter "G" with pride. Even "Amos Jr." would have been just fine, one tiresome uncle told him.

But no. Out of all of the possibilities, Old Amos Goof named the boy _"Goofy."_ And since that day—eighteen years gone—Old Amos Goof's only son had carried the name with pride.

Perhaps he was too lazy to think of something more creative. Perhaps he was too dull, as a few uncharitable souls had claimed. But Goofy knew that his father was neither of those things. He knew that the name for what it truly was: a seal of approval. A reminder that he'd never be an outsider in the hometown of the Goofs of Spoonerville, and a constant assurance that he accepted the boy as his kin, no matter what might befall him in the days to come. Now, with Spoonerville far behind him, Goofy took some weak comfort in that thought.

He was a week out from the nearest town, and his rucksack was growing light. Water still sloshed and splashed in the canteen hanging by his side, but there was no telling when he'd next see a well or a spigot. If he was going to settle down and find a lasting job, it would have to be soon.

He whistled a jaunty tune as he walked, his eyes fixed on the sky, where the handle of the Big Dipper pointed the way to better things. Then, just above the moon, a shooting star traced a graceful arc across the star-specked heavens.

"Gawrsh…" he said, marveling at the sight. "I s'pose that's a good sign…"

Silently, he wished for a promising sign of good things ahead. And as he lowered his eyes back to the road, that wish came true.

Illuminated in the light of the full moon, a freshly painted wooden sign was staked beside the road. In tall, bold letters, it read _"Farthing Fields – 5 miles."_

Goofy smiled. Even for a naturally lazy Goof of Spoonerville, five miles wasn't so bad…

* * *

The moon hung low and heavy over the restless waters of the Minestrone as the steamboat _Oswald_ chugged its merry way along. Peg-Leg Pete strode his way along the deck and bellowed an order to his men:

"Stoke them engines, boys! We're pullin' into port at first light, got me? And we'll make Podunk Landing by week's end, even if I have to flog every last one of you to get us there! The _Oswald_ 's never missed an appointment, and she ain't gonna be late for this job!"

Skittering around at Pete's feet, Florien Foxglove nibbled at a cast-off morsel of potato peel.

"Say, boss…" he piped up. "Why do you call the boat _'she'_ if you named it _'Oswald'_?"

Pete growled as he kicked a bucket at his red-furred cabin boy.

"It's tradition, you stupid fox! You can't call a boat _'he'_! Everybody knows that!"

As Florien skittered away to dodge the bucket, he ran right into the thick legs of Darwin Apeworth, the quartermaster, as he galumphed his way up from the engine room below-decks.

His fur glazed with sweat, Darwin chucked his soot-covered shovel at Florien. The fox struggled to stay upright as he caught it; the shovel was twice as tall as he was. Sitting dutifully at his perch, Parnassus—the parrot—cackled mirthlessly at the absurd sight.

"Get your furry carcass below-decks, Foxglove. I've done my time at the furnace. Now it's your turn. That old engine's got a fierce appetite tonight…"  
"So do I…" Florien whined. "I ain't had nothing to eat but cold porridge for two weeks…"

"I better not be hearin' a complaint out of you, pipsqueak!" Pete barked. "Now get shovellin'!"

Florien made a clumsy salute with one grimy paw. His thick tail bobbing up and down, he scampered below-decks.

Pete kept his eyes riveted on the stern. The full moon's reflection lit up the rippling surface of the wide river. But even on a dark night, the lights of a port town were impossible to miss. As the _Oswald_ rounded the bend of the river, he picked out the lanterns of the first few riverside saloons, glimmering like so many fireflies.

As he watched the river rush on, he never bothered to glance at the sky—where a shooting star traced a graceful arc above the moon.

Pete took no notice of the star. Nor did Apeworth, dragging his knuckles along the deck as he strode to the railing for a cigar. Nor did Parnassus, pecking at a salty pile of sunflower seeds. Nor did Florien, who coughed and sputtered as the furnace belched a thick cloud of smoke. Only one man watched the star as it made its silent passage across the peaceful heavens: the grey-bearded old navigator, who answered only to "Sid."

The hook-nosed old mariner raised his eyes to the sky and smiled as he watched the star rise and fall. Just as well as any man, he knew what to do at the sight of a shooting star. But if he made a wish that night, he made no mention of it.

They didn't call him "Silent Sid" for nothing…


	2. The Restless Waters of the Minestrone

Mickey always smelled the riverside port before he saw it. At the busiest times of the year, the docks seemed to swim with the scent of livestock and unwashed sailors, all gathered in the lively markets by the banks of the Minestrone. And wherever sailors gathered, beer and whiskey flowed as freely as the waters of the Minestrone itself. Horace and Clarabelle knew that—and before Mickey turned sixteen, they forbade him from setting foot within 15 paces of the port. Today, though, they did him the courtesy of driving him there.

As the sun's golden reflection spread across the Minestrone's rushing waters, Horace and Clarabelle's little goat-drawn wagon rattled and bumped its way down the dirt road to the port. Even if they didn't know the way by heart, the sweet jangle of a piano—the telltale sound of a riverside saloon—could have led them there blindfolded.

Clarabelle had cried her fair share of tears the night before. But when she saw the smokestacks of docked riverboats, her eyes grew damp all over again. It was almost time to say her goodbyes.

She slipped Mickey a glass jar, bundled with checkered cloth. It was filled with a generous helping of orange marmalade—a well-known specialty of hers.

"Keep it with you as long as you can, Mickey," she whispered. "If you need something to remind you of home, just help yourself to a spoonful. Remember, your Aunt Clara knows every remedy for sadness there is."

"She's right, you know," Horace said, chuckling. "There ain't a single soul in Farthing Fields who ain't had a smile brought to their face by your Auntie."

Mickey slipped the glass jar into his rucksack, and slung the overstuffed bag over one shoulder. As the nearest riverboats came into sight—flanked by sailors milling this way and that—he slipped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.

"Thanks, Auntie," Mickey said. "But you know I don't need this to remember you. You're not the kind of person I forget."

All talk stopped as the wagon rolled its way through the heart of the market, weaving back and forth between clusters of farmers, merchants, sailors and craftsmen. At one end of the market, burly cabin-mates rolled barrels of whiskey and grain and fresh vegetables down the gangplanks of newly arrived riverboats. At another, farmers chewed tobacco and sipped sarsaparilla as they haggled with merchants at their produce stands, and riverboat captains—dressed smartly in crisp caps and jackets—puffed at their cigars and barked orders to sailors hauling bundles of rope and buckets of coal. White feathers flew as farmers wrestled chickens into cages, and cows and steers mooed mournfully as ranch-hands led them into fenced pens.

Down by the docks, Mickey counted six anchored riverboats, each one belching smoke from its chimney. One was called _Whippoorwill_ , another _Lily Belle_ ; there was a _General Washington_ , a _Proud Penny_ , a _Benny Bonefish_ , and—last of all—an _Oswald._

The last one made Mickey burst into a fit of giggles.

"' _Oswald'_? Who names a boat _'Oswald'_? No way I'm setting foot on _that_ boat…"

Horace chewed at his straw.

"Don't be too sure, lad. When I was your age, I got ferried halfway down the Nile by a riverboat called _'Ignatius.'_ A good boat's bound to surprise you. Just like plenty of _people_ you'll meet. So choose carefully, you hear? Trust your Uncle Horace!"

Clarabelle rolled her eyes.

"' _Halfway down the Nile_ , _'_ he says… You've never been halfway down Main Street, you old nag! Besides, just last Thursday you told me it was the _Amazon!_ You can't even keep your lies straight!"

Horace laughed as she gave his arm a playful poke.

"Alright, maybe I'm no Captain Kidd, but I knew my way around a riverboat when I was a young foal! Listen up, lad: you head straight for that saloon, and you keep those ears perked up. As long as you stay sharp, you're bound to find a captain having a drink. Or a boatswain, at the very least. Just keep your chest puffed up, and don't lose your nerve. If you're serious about finding a job, there's bound to be someone in there who'll take you on. You'll start as a cabin boy, most likely. Just like I did! But on the Mighty Minestrone, there's plenty to see and do, even for a cabin boy."

Mickey leapt from the wagon and hefted his rucksack. He rubbed his hands together as he gathered his courage.

"I can do this…" he whispered to himself. "You bet your boots I can do this!"

Horace laughed.

"Of course you can, lad! Now get going! Them steamboats ain't gonna wait around forever!"

Mickey fixed his eyes on the batwing doors of the saloon. Just beyond those swinging doors, a jaunty piano tune echoed out and drifted through the brisk morning air, mingling with the clink of glasses and the shouts of sailors. He turned around—just once—to wave goodbye to Horace and Clarabelle.

"Bye, Uncle Horace! Bye, Aunt Clara! I promise, I'll see you again!"

Horace whooped and clapped, and Clara blew him a kiss.

"I know you will, Mickey!" Clarabelle called. "But I'll still miss you every day!"

As he turned from them and made for the saloon doors, he scarcely noticed the sailors from the _Oswald_ as they stepped onto the dock.

The barrel-chested old cat went first, with the ape by his side. The fox scampered back and forth between the ape's legs, and the hook-nosed old mariner brought up the rear, silently surveying the dockside town as he walked.

* * *

"Remember, fellas: we're gone in an hour! If you ain't back at the boat when the clock strikes ten, I'm leavin' without ya!" Peg-Leg Pete called.

"Sure, boss! Whatever you say!" Florien Foxglove said.

Darwin Apeworth grunted his assent as Parnassus flapped down to perch on his shoulder, and Silent Sid nodded silently.

"I s'pose someone's gonna be fetching a few buckets of coal, eh? And the larder's getting light. We could use a few bags of beans."

As he said it, Silent Sid was already walking off towards the market stalls.

"Good man, Sid!" Pete called. "At least _someone_ on this rust-bucket pulls their weight!"

"Aw, lay off, boss!" Florien whined. "Darwin _can't_ pull his weight! He's too darned heavy!"

Darwin growled, and Florien skittered between the ape's legs as he drew his foot back to kick him.

"Guess that leaves us enough time for a drink," Pete said. "Hope the saloon's not too grimy…"

As they made their way towards the batwing doors, the sound of rattling wheels and tinkling bells commanded their attention. As it did, a new musical tune competed with the sound of jangling piano keys from the saloon: the lilting, droning sound of organ pipes, played by a musician who knew them well.

Further up the road, just a short walk from the riverside saloon, a caravan of brightly painted circus wagons was making its way to a new destination. Poking up from the tops of hitched horse-drawn trailers, Pete could see the curious faces of giraffes and elephants, who poked their heads up out of the wagons to gawk at the crowds around the market. Atop the roof of one wagon, a smartly dressed raccoon—attired in a black velvet top hat and bottle-green tailcoat—was working the keys of an organ, attracting the eyes of the milling crowds at the market. On the side of another wagon, the words _"Mumford Brothers — Wonders on Wheels!"_ were painted in tall letters. Bringing up the rear of the caravan, the last wagon was decorated with a smattering of gold stars and silver moons, all surrounding an illustration of a black silk top hat and a magic wand grasped by an agile hand.

" _Come one, come all!"_ the raccoon cried. _"There are plenty of strange sights along the Mighty Minestrone, but none so strange as what we've brought. Clancy Mumford brings you sights and sounds from a world apart! Rare beasts from exotic climes, acrobats and rhythmic dancers, and a display of the mystic arts from Galileo Griswell himself!"_

At the rear wagon, a shaggy-chinned goat stuck his head out from the nearest window, brushing dust and straw from the epaulets of his fine velvet suit.

"That's right, folks! Yes indeed! _Galileo Griswell!_ That's me, of course!"

Pete blew a raspberry in the wagon's direction as the caravan came to a stop outside the riverside saloon.

" _A display of the mystic arts_ , eh? A display of good-for-nothing hogwash, more like…" Darwin growled.

Parnassus shrieked and squawked as the ape dug into his coat pocket for a handful of sunflower seeds and flicked them it into his waiting beak.

"I dunno, boss…" Florien said. "It might be a nice show! Good clean fun, y'know?"

He peeped at the caravan from between Pete's legs. The well-dressed raccoon leapt down from behind his organ, and the shaggy-chinned goat—Galileo Griswell—swung his wagon door open and stepped down onto the dewy grass. Together, they proudly strutted off towards the riverside saloon together. In his right hand, Galileo Griswell hefted a heavy leather attaché case decorated with the same star-and-moon pattern that adorned his wagon.

" _Bah!"_ Pete spat. "Mark my words, little fox: nothin' _good_ ever sprouts up along the banks of the Minestrone. Nothin' _clean,_ neither. Spend enough time sailin' these waters, and you'll meet every kind of grifter and guttersnipe that walks on two legs. Or _four_ , for that matter… Steer clear, Foxglove. Take it from old Peg-Leg Pete: there ain't no such thing as magic. If anybody tells you there is, you'll feel their hand in your money pouch before too long."

"Come on, Pete!" Darwin said. "Enough grousing. Let's have a drink!"

They ambled their way into the dimly lit saloon. Inside, the drunken crowds were joining in an off-key singalong as a skinny young tiger clumsily pawed at the keys of a grand piano.

"Three beers, old man!" Pete called to the barkeep. "Make it a small one for the fox! The little twerp can only drink so much!"

Darwin held up one hairy hand.

"Make it two beers, barkeep," he said. "I prefer banana whiskey."

Pete pulled three gold coins from his coat pocket as he elbowed his way through the milling crowds. He flipped them in the barkeep's direction as he took his place at the bar with Darwin and Florien, and the old barkeep busied himself with filling two glasses. For Darwin, he fetched a bottle of Primate's Delight from the shelf above the bar.

In the corner, the sailors and merchants erupted in a crowd of drunken applause as the tiger finished his song. But as soon as he turned for a bow, one of his fellows—a tabby cat in a battered straw boater hat—set about sawing and strumming at an ill-tuned cello.

As the new song picked up in rhythm, a figure appeared in the doorway. He was scarcely three feet tall, but he was endowed with a shiny, twitching nose, which jutted out prominently from his babyish cheeks. His enormous round ears rose high above his head, flapping back and forth in time with the song as he hefted a heavy rucksack over one shoulder. He wore soft-soled shoes of bright yellow leather, immaculate white gloves, and red trousers fixed with shining silver buttons.

At the sight of those ears and that nose, Pete instantly knew the youngster for what he was: a _mouse_. A fieldmouse, to be precise; a mild-mannered breed of rodent, compared to the feral variety that dwelt in sewers and canals and city alleyways farther north. Not the rarest or strangest breed of creature in Farthing Fields, nor the cleverest or the fiercest. Pete likely would never have given him a second glance, if not for what happened next.

The lad kicked open the batwing doors, stepped into the doorway of the saloon, and puffed out his scrawny chest. As he placed his hands upon his hips and struck a proud pose, he bellowed a bold declaration for all to hear:

" _Listen up, fellas!"_ he said. _"My name's_ _ **Mickey Mouse**_ _—and with the morning sky as my witness, I'm gonna conquer the Mighty Minestrone!"_

For just one moment, the tabby cat paused at his cello to listen. But the fieldmouse's words were cut short as the batwing doors swung back around and walloped him in the face, knocking him flat on his backside. The saloon erupted in a chorus of laughs.

A moment later, the lad stuck his head back through the swinging doors. He grinned sheepishly, and his face went beet-red with embarrassment. Still, he tiptoed into the saloon and made his way to the bar. Mustering all the suaveness he had, he wedged his way in between two grizzled sailors. When their conversation hit a lull, he took a deep breath and piped up with a simple entreaty.

"Say, fellas…" the fieldmouse said. "You wouldn't have room on your boat for a cabin boy, would you?"

For a moment, they seemed to consider it. But when they got a good look at him, they collapsed into fits of wild laughter. Even when he drew himself up to full height, the little mouse couldn't see over the bar.

"Good one, kid!" one sailor said, clapping his companion on the back.

"Yeah!" the other said. "Give us a call when you manage to grow three feet!"

Their drinks finished, the sailors plunked down their empty glasses and strode from the bar, laughing all the way to the door.

Mickey turned to the next sailor along the bar: a broad-shouldered old toad who sat upon a barstool with a block of chewing tobacco in his slimy hand. He tore off a fat brown plug of tobacco and slurped it up with his long, pink tongue, and worked his jaw around as he chewed it vigorously.

Mickey was keen to look like a sailor, but he had no tobacco to chew—so instead, he dug into his pocket for a packet of bubblegum, and popped a pink square of sugarcoated gum into his mouth. The toad chewed his tobacco, and Mickey did his best to mimic the movements of his mouth as he chewed his bubblegum. When the toad threw his head back and moved to spit a wad of tobacco into the nearest spittoon, Mickey threw his head back and moved to spit out a wad of bubblegum. Instead, he blew a fat pink bubble, which burst with a loud _"pop!"_

Startled by the sudden noise, the toad sat bolt upright and pulled a rusty old flintlock pistol from a holster on his belt, then fired at single round through the nearest wall. All around, drunken sailors dove under tables for cover and grabbed at their own pistols. The toad looked left and right for the source of the noise, and finally saw Mickey sitting atop his barstool with his face plastered with bubblegum. Mickey shrugged his shoulders as he gave his best innocent smile, and the toad grumbled incoherently as he turned and walked from the bar.

One seat over, there was just one more sailor in Mickey's line of sight: the cat.

Looking as inconspicuous as he could, Mickey wiped the bubblegum from his face and tiptoed his way over to the barstool next to the cat. Before he could sit down, the fox peeped out from around the cat's shoulder and gave Mickey the dirtiest look he could muster.

"I know what you're gonna ask, kid," Florien said. "Don't waste your breath! The Minestrone's no place for a country boy, and the _Oswald_ 's no place for a scrawny rat!"

Mickey felt his chest grow hot with anger, but he held his tongue. He knew that sailors weren't known for mincing words, but he wouldn't let their japes and mockery intimidate him. He only said one thing in response:

"No rats here, sir," he said. "I'm a _mouse_. A purebred Calisota fieldmouse. And I've been working the fields since I was old enough to say my name."

For a moment, Pete didn't look up from his beer. But then he grabbed Florien by his collar and lifted him from his barstool.

"Listen up, furball: I don't care if this here fieldmouse called your grandmother an inbred chipmunk! There's just one captain on this boat, and it sure as plum pie ain't _you!_ Understand me, runt? You don't make the decisions here— _I_ do!"

He let go of Florien's collar, and the fox—thoroughly frazzled—fell back down on the barstool with his bushy tail between his legs. Darwin laughed a hearty laugh as he swigged his banana whiskey. With that, Pete turned and looked down at Mickey.

Mickey braced himself for a stern tongue-lashing. The old cat's face seemed permanently locked into an angry frown, his eyes burning with at least a year's worth of pent-up rage. But as soon as he looked down at Mickey, his expression changed. First he seemed annoyed, then quizzical, then—his features softening at last—he seemed to take pity on the big-eared creature who'd disturbed his morning drink. Instead of unloading on Mickey with a volley of curses, he drew a deep breath and sighed.

"Ah, jeez…" Pete said. "Let me guess: you're sick of this humdrum old farming town, right? Tired of Ma and Pa, tired of the old grind in the fields, and tired of looking at the same darn sunrise every morning. I bet you're tired of a lot of things. And I bet you think the Mighty Minestrone's your ticket to better things. Is that about right?"

Mickey considered the question.

"Mostly right, I guess," he said. "I never knew my Ma and Pa, though. Horace Horsecollar and Clarabelle Cow raised me when I was little. I'm certainly not _sick_ of them… And Farthing Fields is a swell place. It's the only home I've ever known, and I couldn't have asked for a better one. It's a fine thing, having a home that you can count on. But the world's a big place, and it's full of strange sights and fine people. I want to _see_ the world! I can't spend my whole life knocking around one tiny little corner of the world. And besides… My Uncle Horace and my Aunt Clara spent half their lives raising me. I owe them something, I suppose. And I hear a man can make a good pile of money working a riverboat."

Pete sniffed the air disdainfully.

"Take it from me, little mouse: you don't owe anybody _anything_. If you wait long enough, everybody'll stab you in the back."

"Not them," Mickey persisted. "You don't know my Uncle and my Auntie. They're good people. And a long time ago, I promised myself that I'd pay them back for giving me a home. And I will—even if I have to travel the whole Minestrone to find my fortune. If a man wants to see the world, I figure that's as good a reason as any."

Pete threw his head back as he gulped down the last of his beer, then wiped the foam from his upper lip. He sighed again, a little longer and deeper than before.

"Once upon a time, little mouse, I was a lot like you. It might be hard to believe that, I suppose. I was born in a tenement house up in Saint Canard. Never worked a field, but I also never knew my parents. I ran with a gang for a few years. Earned my keep by snatchin' purses and rippin' off parking meters. The first time I saw a riverboat steamin' up the Tulebug, I told the captain I'd work his boiler for free—as long as he'd give me a ticket out of that smog-choked old dung heap. That was near on fifteen years ago, and I've been workin' the waterways of Calisota ever since. When I was your age, I figured I'd find a nicer town, somewhere up the river. But I've sailed my way up half a dozen rivers, and every town is the same. Take it from me: when you find a kindly corner of the world, _stay there_. As long as you can."

Mickey looked to the floor and contemplated his shoes. He remembered the sight of Clarabelle's tear-streaked face the night before. Had he really forced her to cry all those tears for nothing?

"And what if I don't?" Mickey asked. "What if I leave Farthing Fields behind? I'd need to sign up with a crew. And I'd need a captain. Would _you_ take me on?"

In years to come, Pete would reflect on the little mouse's persistence. If he'd told him _"No"_ outright, the lad would likely have accepted it and walked away. Pete never shied away from speaking his mind—but something in the little fieldmouse's earnest expression tugged at his heartstrings.

"You're still young, kid," Pete said. "You think you're ready to take on the world, but you don't know how the world can wear you down. Fifteen years down the road, you'll be begging for some peace, but the Mighty Minestrone's still gonna be rollin' on—same as always. You'll run out of steam before too long, but that old river _never_ will. Do you really want to deal with those odds?"

Mickey's grin broadened as he nodded his head.

"You bet I do!" he said.

Pete slid his empty glass over to the bartender as he motioned to Darwin and Florien to finish their drinks.

"You've got spunk, kid," he said. "Some old soul's gonna be grateful to have you as a cabin boy, I'll wager. But not Peg-Leg Pete."

Mickey's face drooped, and he hunched his shoulders.

"Sorry, kid," Pete said. "The _Oswald_ 's a small boat. I'm stretched thin as it is. And I've already got a cabin boy. He might drive me up the wall sometimes, but he's still my cabin boy…"

He threw Florien a dirty glance at that last word.

Pete wasn't known for his sincere apologies. But this time, at least, he meant it when he said _"Sorry."_

As Mickey turned to walk from the bar, the batwing doors flew open again, and Pete rolled his eyes as he got a good look at the figures standing in the doorway. The raccoon was back, and the shaggy-chinned goat—Galileo Griswell—was standing by his side, still hefting his leather attaché case. But this time, they had a third companion: the raccoon pushed along an enormous glass display case set upon four wheels, and a gypsy woman—attired in colorful shawls and glittering gemstones—was sitting inside, her hands hovering motionlessly above a crystal ball. It was an old-fashioned fortunetelling booth, complete with a coin-operated fortuneteller with a body of wires and clockwork and painted porcelain.

"Gather round, folks!" the raccoon cried. "Clancy Mumford has wonders aplenty for all who draw near! Want your fortune told? The mysteries of the future are no mysteries for Madame Evangeline! For just a quarter, destinies can be revealed!"

For the briefest of moments, Mickey contemplated the painted porcelain face of that old coin-operated gypsy, and wondered if she held the answers he sought. But his pockets were light, and he had few quarters to spare.

The barkeep grumbled as he polished glasses.

"Keep that nonsense out of here, Mumford!" he said. "This ain't a place for cheap carnival tricks. We don't cater to anybody except good honest drunks!"

The raccoon pulled a gold coin from the pocket of his waistcoat and flipped it to the barkeep, who caught it in mid-air.

"Alright, go ahead…" the barkeep sighed. "But no funny business, hear me?"

The raccoon winked at the barkeep before he turned to address the surly crowd of sailors.

"Or perhaps you'd prefer wonders of a more alchemical sort? Look no further! My astute colleague Mr. Griswell can sell you nightmares and lullabies and concentrated essence of power—all distilled and bottled!"

"Quite right, Mr. Mumford!" Galileo Griswell piped up.

As he set his suitcase atop the bar, he popped it open, revealing at least a dozen glass bottles of varying shapes and sizes, all filled with strange liquids. Some fizzed and bubbled, and some changed color in the presence of light.

"You mean to sell us magic potions, eh? _Bah!"_ Pete spat. "Your fine words might work on these backcountry rubes, but Peg-Leg Pete don't fall for nothin'! And even if those potions worked, I'd never pay a cent for 'em. You couldn't possibly have anything I'd want!"

Galileo Griswell flashed a toothy grin as he took a seat at the bar beside Darwin. He removed a single bottle from his display case and plunked it down on the bar. It was fixed with a crystal stopper in the shape of a heart, and its contents were as red as blood.

"What about _love_ , old sport?" Galileo Griswell asked. "I suppose it must get lonely out there on the Minestrone, eh? With a dram of this fine concoction, you'll know what it truly means to love someone!"

Pete guffawed mightily.

"Put that away, sonny," he said. "Peg-Leg Pete ain't lookin' for love. But when my next big haul comes in, I've got a feelin' love's gonna come lookin' for _me!"_

Galileo Griswell gave a disdainful sniff.

"Very well, then. I'm sure _someone_ in Farthing Fields appreciates my talents…"

He reached over to grab his bottle. As he stuffed it back into his attaché case, Darwin took a last swig of his banana whiskey. But as he swallowed, something in the liquor's taste made him gag. When he looked down at his bottle, his eyes went wide with shock. Just as he did, Galileo Griswell took a cautious look at the contents of his case. When he saw what was inside, he did a double take.

Amid the strange and exotic potions lined up in his leather case, there was a bottle of banana whiskey sitting where his love potion should have been. In his hurry to leave, he had mistakenly grabbed Darwin's whiskey—and Darwin had grabbed his love potion.

Pete's expression of mild annoyance turned to slowly dawning horror. Darwin's eyes glazed over; in the low light of the saloon, they seemed to glow a faint shade of pink.

"Uh… Apeworth? You feelin' okay, big guy?" Pete asked.

Darwin didn't answer, but he looked straight across saloon, staring at some compelling sight with an unblinking gaze. As he did, the strange glimmer in his eyes seemed to intensify, and he smiled dreamily. Curious, Pete looked across the bar to see what he was staring at. When he realized what, he cradled his face in his hands with exasperation.

Darwin was staring at the coin-operated gypsy fortuneteller, visibly smitten with what he saw. As Pete put a hand to his shoulder to shake him out of his trance, he rose from his barstool, already pulling a quarter from his coat pocket. A coin slot labeled _"25_ _¢"_ was clearly visible at the front of the fortuneteller's glass case.

Before anybody could stop him, Darwin slid his quarter into the slot. As the clockwork woman began to twitch and whir, he pressed his flat nose against the glass, and the glass grew foggy with his breath.

"What would you ask of me… _my love?"_ Darwin asked.

The gypsy woman's porcelain hands hovered above her crystal ball, and the crystal ball glowed with electric light. As her lips began to move, a tape-recording—hidden somewhere in her throat—began to roll.

" _Follow your heart wherever it may take you, and it will never guide you astray! Destiny waits where you may least expect it!"_ the gypsy woman said.

A tear rolled down Darwin's hairy cheek, and he threw his arms around the glass display case.

"Oh, _yes!_ Oh, _yes!_ My heart belongs with you, my love! And I'll follow you wherever you go!"

"Shake it off, Apeworth! Snap out of it!" Pete bellowed. But Darwin didn't seem to hear.

Galileo Griswell packed up his potions as he surreptitiously inched towards the doors. When Darwin finally let go of the glass case, the raccoon moved to push it away.

"Well, folks, it's been a blast!" the raccoon said nervously. "We'll see you again, sometime before judgment day. _Time to go!"_

Galileo Griswell and the raccoon made for the exit, as fast as their legs would carry them. But as soon as Darwin saw the gypsy woman rolling away, he bounded off after them.

"Wait! _Wait!_ I'll go with you!" he cried.

" _Like heck you will!"_ Pete retorted.

As Darwin dashed out into the morning air, Pete dashed after him, with Florien following close behind. Just at that moment, Silent Sid returned from the market with three buckets of coal and two bags of beans. As he saw Darwin chasing after the porcelain gypsy woman, he stopped in his tracks, scratching his head with confusion as he took in the strange sight.

Galileo Griswell rolled the gypsy woman into his wagon, and the raccoon leapt atop the lead wagon, where he took his place behind his organ. As he commenced a jaunty tune, the caravan began to move—but too slow for Darwin, who clambered atop Galileo Griswell's wagon as it rolled away.

The raccoon shrugged.

"I guess somebody's joining the circus…" he said.

"Darwin, you lummox! _Get back here!"_ Pete thundered.

"Sorry, boss," Darwin said. "My heart belongs to somebody else now. Farewell, boys! I'll always remember the _Oswald!"_

Dumbfounded, Pete watched the caravan roll away until it faded from sight. Silent Sid standing by his shoulder, silently shaking his head.

For at least five minutes, Mickey was afraid to speak.

"So, uh… You think you might have room for a cabin boy _now?"_ he finally asked.

Pete groaned.

"Foxglove… You might get on my nerves, but I'm promoting you to quartermaster," he said. "As for you, pipsqueak…"

He turned to look down at Mickey.

"What did you say your name was, again?" he asked.

Mickey beamed with pride.

"Mickey, sir! Mickey Mouse!"

"Well, _Mickey Mouse…_ I s'pose introductions are in order. I'm Peg-Leg Pete. But if you're gonna be a cabin boy on the _Oswald_ , you'll be addressin' me as 'Captain'. We clear on that?"

"Yes, sir!" Mickey said, snapping a crisp salute. " _Oswald_ , huh? That sure is a funny name…"

Pete furrowed his brow.

"Watch your mouth, pipsqueak!" he growled. "I named that rust-bucket after the finest sailor I ever knew. I owe him my life, and a little bit more than that."

Mickey gulped.

"Uh… Sorry, captain…."

"Anyway… The fuzzy-tailed one's Florien Foxglove. He's usually the reason my blood pressure's so high. Try not to annoy me as much as he does. And last of all…"

He gestured to the newcomer, who had wandered over from the market with an armful of coal and dried beans. The man's eyes were nearly hidden under the brim of his battered top hat, but his hooked nose jutted out from under it. His hair was wild and grey, and his cheeks were cracked and wind-burned. He had an enormous grey beard, which hung long past his neck.

"This here's the navigator," Pete said. "We call him 'Sid'. Nobody knows a thing about him, but he's a wizard with a compass and an astrolabe. He could steer you a safe course down the River Styx, if you needed him to."

Sid tipped up his broad-brimmed hat. The man was well over six feet tall, and Mickey's head barely reached his knees. Though his face was wrinkled and weather-beaten, his eyes shone clear and bright, glimmering with some strange breed of wisdom that Mickey had no word for. Mickey expected a hardened stare—but instead, the old mariner smiled at him. Not a cruel sneer, but not an altogether comforting expression either; there was something unsettling in his gaze, as if he knew more about Mickey than Mickey knew about him.

Mickey shook off the feeling. He gave Sid his most cordial smile as he extended his hand in greeting.

"Pleased to meet you, Mister Sid!" he said.

Sid didn't respond, and he didn't accept his handshake. Instead, he knelt on one knee and dipped his head, giving Mickey a fanciful little bow.

Perplexed, Mickey withdrew his hand and returned the bow. Pete put a hand on Mickey's shoulder.

"Don't take it too personal, lad," Pete said. "We call him _'Silent Sid'_ for a reason. The old man ain't said a single word, as long as he's sailed with me. They say he had a voyage to the South Seas that disagreed with him."

With that, Pete struck a match to light his cigar, then took a long drag. As he blew a fat ring of smoke, he pointed to the _Oswald_ , which lay docked at the nearest quay.

"And that there's the _Oswald_ ," Pete said. "And if you're gonna be a cabin boy, that old rust-bucket's gonna be your home for the next long while. At least 'til we make Podunk Landing. Now let's get movin', boys! We've got an appointment to make!"

They trooped up the gangplank, with Pete in the lead. Mickey brought up the rear, and Parnassus circled thrice above their heads and glided down to land atop his perch. Pete took his place behind the helm, and gripped the well-worn wooden wheel in his strong hands. He pulled a cord, and the boat's whistle shrieked three times as Silent Sid pulled up the gangplank.

By then, there must have been at least a hundred marketers milling by the riverside. But amid them all, Mickey still managed to pick out Horace and Clarabelle, sitting side-by-side in the back of their wagon. They had stayed behind as long as they could, just to see him off.

As he rushed to the railing to call out to them, Mickey drank in his surroundings all at once: the rich green fields, the distant shapes of mist-shrouded mountains, and the waters of the river—endlessly rushing into eternity.

"Bye, Uncle Horace! Bye, Aunt Clara!" Mickey called. "I'll see you again! I promise, I'll see you again!"

They waved back, but their replies were drowned out by the shrill wail of the boat's whistle. At the helm, Pete worked the steering wheel for all it was worth.

"Fire them engines, boys!" Pete cried. "Keep 'em hot! And for heck's sake— _put that mouse to work!"_

Grinning maliciously, Florien tossed Mickey a shovel. He opened a door to the engine room, already thick with the smell of coal and ash. The glowing boiler shone bright red through the thick veils of black smoke, and heaping piles of coal reached to the ceiling.

"It's a long way to Podunk Landing, little mouse," Florien sneered. "Get shoveling!"

* * *

When Donald awoke in the morning light, his uncle was already long awake. That didn't surprise him—the man was known for being an early riser. But most mornings, he woke early to count and recount the previous days earning. Today, he was hunched beside the telegraph, an expression of grave concern on his face.

Donald gulped down a mug of cold coffee. When that didn't wake him up, he slapped himself across the face twice. He leaned across a rock to watch the sun rise over the flat hardpan of Gooseliver Gulch, painting the countryside with shadow. By the entrance to the mines, the tethered horses munched at their oats.

"What's the matter, Uncle Scrooge?" Donald asked. "Something wrong with the telegraph?"

"That's what I'd hoped, young Donald," Scrooge said. "But I fear it might be a bit more serious than all that…"

Donald walked over to the telegraph, where Scrooge stood posted with pen and paper. As the familiar series of dots and dashes came over the wire, Scrooge transcribed two simple messages:

 _SIGNAL. CLEAR. STOP. NO. STAGECOACH. STOP._

"It's been six days since the stagecoach left, fully loaded," Scrooge said. "And it's _three_ days' ride to the way station, at the very most. But no word of the coach reaching its destination. I'd hoped it was a communication problem, but no such luck. The way station's telegraphed back to us. They're coming through, clear as day. But no sign of our coach. It never made it."

Donald tugged at his collar and adjusted his cap.

"So what does that mean?" he asked. "Do you think they got lost?"

"Perhaps. Gooseliver Gulch can be a rough place for greenhorns. But I don't _hire_ greenhorns. And there was $100,000 worth of gold in that wagon. If somebody was looking to make a big score, it would be a juicy target…"

Donald gulped.

"So you think _bandits_ got to it?"

Scrooge gave a wily smile.

"There are plenty of crooks between here and Duckberg," he said. "But most of them aren't quite bold enough to steal from Scrooge McDuck. Those who _are_ , well… They usually learn the error of their ways, before long."

"So what should we do, then?" Donald asked.

Scrooge considered the question.

"If we're fortunate, then we've got a lost company man who needs to find his way home. If we're not, then we've got $100,000 in missing gold that needs accounting for. Either way, we need to find that wagon."

Scrooge crossed to the edge of the camp. A moment later, he tossed something heavy at Donald. When Donald caught it, he saw what it was: a leather saddle.

"Saddle up, young Donald," Scrooge said. "We've got a stagecoach to find!"

* * *

Horace and Clarabelle made it back to the farm an hour past midday. Goofy wasn't known for his dramatic entrances—but this time, he timed his arrival perfectly.

As he made his way up the road with his rucksack slung over one shoulder, he passed the farm just as the wagon came into view—bumping and rattling up the uneven dirt path. He gave the elderly horse and cow a friendly smile, his expression as unassuming as ever. Inwardly, though, he felt a swell of hope. Would this farm finally have a job to offer?

"Afternoon, folks!" he said, waving. "Fine day, isn't it?"

The cow smiled weakly. Clearly, she had something on her mind. Was it worth lingering?

The horse made his way to the door of the farmhouse and walked inside. When he returned a moment later, he carried a hammer in his right hand, and a painted wooden sign under his left arm. As he moved to the front of the house to nail up the sign, Goofy got a good look at the words painted on it:

" _HELP WANTED: EXPERIENCED FARMHAND!"_

He smiled, and strode to the front door.


End file.
